Nudging the rich juices of a braised faggot, or dissolving into the hot onion gravy that accompanies a Cumberland sausage, the poor swede at least stands something of a chance - especially when it has been mashed with half its weight in butter and crowned with Kerala's entire harvest of black pepper. Beyond that, served as a stand-alone vegetable or floating in a thin stew, this pale golden globe is the most unwelcome of vegetables, losing ground in the last decade to sugar-sweet mangetout and out-of-season asparagus. Yet I must own up to a fondness for this root, particularly when it comes mashed into a translucent amber mound or tucked into the folds of a genuine Cornish pasty.

OK, so it has a bit of a PR problem. A swede has none of the explicit elegance of the asparagus spear, the intricate beauty of the globe artichoke or the touchy-feely virtue of an aubergine. A swede is little more than a big lump of starch. And while it may be a deep amber when cooked and buttered, in the vegetable rack this baby is simply beige. Few vegetables are as heavy to carry home, yield so little juice or smell so unappetising. To add insult to injury, a swede is prone to give you gas. So even if I do succeed in convincing you to befriend this lonely root, you may end up cursing me later.

Time and time again, the dear old swede is passed over for something prettier, juicier or simply sweeter. I do it myself, pouncing on the lush bundles of spinach, the crunchy carrots and bushy purple sprouting, leaving the lone fawn and mauve lump sobbing in the vegetable rack. It doesn't help that a swede is the cheapest vegetable, and that it finds itself inextricably associated with the stews and braises we have ditched for the dazzling flavours of the Far East or the sexy warmth of the Italian kitchen. In short, the swede needs some help.

Yesterday, I fried some in butter, poured in a measure of stock and left the golden chunks to soften and soak it all up. It was a surprising success. I had meant it to accompany a sausage hotpot I was giving friends for supper, but ended up eating the entire panful before they arrived. The secret was to let the slices of vegetable caramelise slightly in the butter and to let them become fully tender, almost squashy, before I tucked in. Two nights ago, I hid more of the orange cubes in a deeply inauthentic Cornish pasty (I chucked the sacred beef in favour of a shoulder of pork) and good they were, too. Tonight, it's thin slices of the fat root baked with sage and chicken stock.

The least popular vegetable it may be, but at least the swede can boast a recipe that is a classic of the British kitchen, which is more than anyone can say for mangetout or mini-sweetcorn. Bashed neeps, as the Scots call them, are one of the most famous of our vegetable dishes, and with just cause. They are best known for their affiliation with haggis, but they deserve to be brought out more often than once a year. They are easy to get wrong. Overcooking will cause them to disintegrate, and a tight hand with the butter and the black pepper will leave everyone wondering why you bothered. Mashed swede is only worth eating when half a packet of butter is suspended in it. The black pepper should be freshly cracked, so that it is truly fragrant. Butter and black pepper is the mantra of swede aficionados.

I should pass on a small tip to those who find swede a difficult vegetable to deal with. Shorn of its thick outer peel, a swede has a habit of slipping under the knife (I find parsnips do the same, especially when wet). This can be dangerous. I get round this by cutting off a lump from one side and using this flat side to stand the swede on while I cut. On the occasions I don't do this, I inevitably have to retrieve the hard and slippery creature from the floor and usually just miss cutting myself in the process.

There is just enough betacarotene in a swede to qualify for inclusion in the sacred list of orange vegetables that are now considered so good for us, though if it is antioxidants you are eating it for, then you might do better to munch on a carrot, bunny-style. Perhaps it is the thought of all the spring produce currently pushing its way up through the soil that spurs me on, but I am happy to make the most of the last of the winter roots. Parsnips, fat carrots and swedes have all been boiled and mashed in my kitchen this week. I have also braised sliced swede with chicken stock and herbs and tried - unsuccessfully - to make a soup from them.

You must be assuming I am sitting here in a cloud of gas. Truth told, root vegetables rarely give rise to what Julia Child, the doyenne of American TV cooks, coyly refers to as the 'rooty-toots' unless they are savagely undercooked. There is no joy in an underdone swede. The trick is to take them to the edge of collapse, but to catch them before they disintegrate. That way, they will be sweet, tender and trouble-free.

Swede with butter and stock Don't be put off by the word 'stock'. Stock made from a powder or even a cube is fine for this - in fact, I think it is almost better.

Peel the swede, cut in half lengthways, and then in half again, then slice it so that you end up with small pieces no thicker than your little finger, rather like sauté potatoes. Now melt the butter in a shallow pan set over a moderate heat and add the swede. Don't stir or move it around the pan for a minute - simply leave the pieces to colour on their flat sides, then turn them. When they are golden-brown around the edges, pour in the stock and bring to the boil.

Once it is boiling, turn the heat down to a simmer and leave for 15 minutes or so until the swede is deep orange-gold and tender enough to squash with a fork. You may need 5 minutes or so longer. The liquid will have reduced to a buttery juice. Serve the swede straightaway (it needs to be very hot to be good) with a grind of black pepper and salt.

Set the oven at 200C/gas mark 6. Cut the swede into slices about as thick as a pound coin. It is easier and safer to do this by first cutting a slice from one side and using this to steady the swede as you cut. Generously butter a baking dish or roasting tin. Lay the slices of swede and onion in the dish, seasoning them with salt and black pepper and strewing a few sage and rosemary leaves as you go. Ladle over the stock so that it just about covers the vegetables - a matter of five or so ladlefuls - then dot on the rest of the butter.

Bake in the preheated oven for an hour or so, turning the swede in the stock from time to time, until the vegetables are tender enough to crush between your fingers. Serve as a side dish, with some of the juices spooned over.

Pork, swede and leek pastiesI know better than to use the word 'Cornish' to describe these - I once lived there, and have no wish to tread on the toes of any pasty purists. The pastry here is somewhat shorter and more crumbly than that usually used for meat pies. Makes 3

Rub the butter and lard into the flour with your fingertips, or blitz it all in a food processor, until the mixture resembles coarse breadcrumbs. Drizzle in enough very cold water - it will be about 3 tbsps - for you to be able to bring the dough into a firm, smooth ball, then leave it in a cool place to rest.

Cut the pork into chunks about the diameter of a thumbnail. Trim the leek, discarding the tough, dark-green bits, and cut them across into thin pieces. Melt a little butter in a shallow pan and fry the leeks till they start to wilt, but without letting them colour. Cut the peeled swede into small cubes, then add it to the leeks when they are approaching tenderness. They will brighten in colour after a few minutes' cooking. When they have been cooking for 5 minutes or so, and the leeks are tender, turn off the heat and let the mixture cool slightly before continuing.

Preheat the oven to 200C/gas mark 6. Cut the pastry into three and roll each piece out into a circle about 20cm across, using a plate to cut round. Toss the pork with the warm leeks and swedes, and season generously with salt and black pepper. Divide the filling between the pastry discs, piling it up in the middle. Brush a little water, milk or beaten egg round the rim of the pastry, then bring the left and right edges of each piece of pastry together, pressing them firmly to seal. Pinch the pastry together to crimp the seam. Make a small airhole in the top, then brush the pasties with milk or beaten egg.

Bake in the preheated oven for 20 minutes, then turn down the heat to 180C/gas mark 5 and continue baking for 35 minutes until the pastry is golden brown.